My Dearest Doctor John Hamish Watson
by Strifenhart
Summary: A wondering vampire finally takes a moment to reflect on the past.


So this is a trial run ... If it goes somewhere the I will do something with it.

* * *

The stark whiteness contrasted with the dark coat that hugged the man's shoulders. The expanse he looked upon was bloodied and up in smoke making the scene even more gruesome than was called for. It was not his fault the villagers had gotten in his way. For that matter he was not even that hungry but they had made great cases against it.

"Why must humans all run and scream, it just makes them more like pray," the pale man mused to the wind.

An agile hand brought itself up unconsciously to wipe away the trail of blood that had almost dried upon the man's angular chin. The front of the navy frock-coat faired no better as it was also caked in blood. The garment of clothing itself held no real meaning to the owner, so he stripped it from his person along with any other blood stained items and tossed them to the ground. The only item left was a vest as it housed his most prized possession.

"And that was my favorite one," the man briefly contemplated mourning the loss of one of his articles of clothing, but in the end, he let the feeling pass with the blink of an eye.

He straightened the tightly knotted bow tie around his neck, another item he had also elected to keep, then casually strutted in his customary haughty saunter, towards the sinking horizon. The curls of his hair bounced lazily with his step.

The wind picked up, blowed crystals of ice into his face, coating each hair on his exposed head and chest with a fine layer of white powder. Cold and wind was no obstacle for this man, his skin was impervious to all nature had to throw and then some. The almost meandering walk took him over hill and through river, yet he was not tired nor even winded in the slightest. Contemplation of the insignificant to the profound was the only company he had and the only he ever desired. Animals knew to keep their distance out of respect to order. Insects were non existent in the cold that had frozen the land.

The only companion he had was a pocket watch. The piece was small and made of shined metal with a simple embossing of letters H and W. The most important item he has ever known to have owned. The constant ticking the watch maintained was the only thing that grounded him to reality now.

The first sign of light peeked over the mountains in the distance waking the predator from his internal reverie. Time was but a luxury to those who did not feel its pull.

The first signs of life made themselves present as he approached a small village. Few folks were out for their day to day business. Gathering his wit, the unearthly man realized the state of undress he was in. Striding with more purpose through the town he searched for an inn. The youngish woman he stopped before, to ask for directions, was an obvious dullard. The almost blank look in he eyes told all. The dirt under her fingers with which she used to point, signified that she worked in the fields for long periods of time, possibly with tools as well judging from the calluses on her hands. The creases on her face told that she was in her mid-twenties. The way she held herself said that she was single and still lived with her parents. The slight color lighting her pale cheeks let the demon know that he had effected her in some way and compliance would be easy to obtain.

"Could you point in the direction of the nearest inn?" He spoke in an easy but firm tone. The finger she used to point started to shake.

"Down the way a bit from here, sir." The girl's voice trembled as she spoke from a fear she probably did not even understand. "The only one in town, sir. You can't miss it."

The imposing stranger gave a curt bow in thanks and moved on his way. He knew from speaking to her that his presence in the town would be known by the end of the day. Though she may not have been able to tell what he was, instinct would have told that he was a dangerous person.

The man strode on with purpose to the inn, eager to clean himself of the grime still caked in various places. He payed the clerk in a healthy dose mind control, getting out of it one of the 'nicer' rooms, meaning it had few less fleas in the mattress.

All he was looking for was a basin to wash his extremities and a place to sit and think . . . And possibly write.

After drawing a quick bath in the common and giving, what remained of his clothes, a good wash, Sherlock sat in his favorite position with pen and paper. Both were 'borrowed' from the clerk at the front desk. The only thing he was clad in was the sheet from the bed as it brought back memories. Things that once happened now seeming like a far off dream. Back when humanity had meaning. Back when his was his alone.

Sherlock's hand trembled as he dipped his pen he had not thought on these memories in over a hundred years. And yet . . . and yet it was like they happened only yesterday.

The blank page stood ever so stark against the blackness of the ink  
droplets that fell on the page. He started his writing slowly and methodically, the only thing he could ever write.

'My Dearest Doctor John Hamish Watson,'


End file.
